


Tender

by grandfatherclock



Series: Hey Nonny, Nonny! [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Community: widojest love, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Misogyny, Warning: Trent Ikithon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 19:27:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21361459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandfatherclock/pseuds/grandfatherclock
Summary: Even Jester's lilting breath interrupts Bren's destiny.[A snippet from theHey Nonny, Nonnyverse, in which Bren realizes he's in trouble.]
Relationships: Jester Lavorre/Caleb Widogast
Series: Hey Nonny, Nonny! [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1415449
Comments: 2
Kudos: 52





	Tender

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt _tender_.
> 
> Trigger warning for Trent Ikithon being a misogynist and an abuser.

Bren stares at Jester out of the corner of his eye.

He’s trying to read this book Master Ikithon sent for him, one regarding old strategic tactics that warring nations on the continent of Tal’dorei weaponized in the beginning of this age, and it’s fascinating, it really is. Bren finds himself endlessly grateful that Master Ikithon thinks of him at all these days, and ignores the strange way that his breath seems light all of a sudden, light all at once.

It’s light here, isn’t it? Jester leaves it light here, Jester opens the windows and allows fresh air in where Bren prefers the manor be closed off to the momentary whims of the sky, deep red curtains against the dark colours of the walls, heavy and—_foreboding_, Bren thinks—intimidating, the way Master Ikithon prefers them. It’s a skill, how keyed in Bren is to Master Ikithon’s tastes, how he chose the decor of the manor all on his own—

_Gottverdammt_, Jester is giggling under her breath, and Bren looks to her, looks to the _mess_ that is her hair.

_Well_. To say mess implies that Bren is… looking at it uncharitably, and though that might’ve been true once, it isn’t… true anymore. Bren distantly recalls how _sternly _Master Ikithon lectured Astrid on her vanity, his wrinkled hand digging into her arm as he pulled her out of his office and into the hallway, calling Bren and Eodwulf forth to make an example of her in front of them. He grimaces, trying to ignore the loud and intrusive memory.

Bren doesn’t want to _think_ about that, and so he examines the multi-coloured curlers all in Jester’s hair, the dark brown strands pulled in various directions while Jester sits in front of her mother’s huge mirror, holding a variety of different foundations and eye make-ups in her arms as she fumbles with her red lipstick she’s attempting to apply on herself. Some of the sets fall to the floor, and Bren watches her make a sigh of relief as none of them open and stain the rug she’s sitting over.

“_Fuck_,” she says, and then Bren watches as she _carefully _sets the rest of the sets down in front of her, one at a time as her dainty freckled hand puts them in a circle all around her. It’s somewhat reminiscent of a shrine, absurd and strange and _hilarious_, and he gazes at her wink at the Traveler statue in the corner of her living room that she isn’t supposed to have.

Bren can’t help but quirk up his lips as he watches her pucker her lips once more, continuing with that bright shade of red. _Master Ikithon would find it a little too bright_, Bren thinks for a moment, and then he finds himself freezing, and then blinking. The heaviness in his chest feels like it’s fighting against the lightness in his breath. His head is spinning, and he feels a little wrong, and feels a little wrong _because_ Jester is grinning at him, crawling on her knees and batting her eyes in that way that makes him feel a little _right._ “Don’t I look _pretty_, Bren?”

Bren _blinks_, and then… impossibly, he’s leaning closer to her _too_. Jester’s cold hands reach for his knees, and then she’s bracing herself _up_. Bren feels his traitorous right-wrong-_right_ fingers thread through her hair, blackened and calloused and making her smile as she _leans_ to his touch. She comes close with her bright red lips, and Bren for a moment just _gazes _at her, thinking of the way that she is, thinking about how she lives for bold colour and bold choice, leaning over to kiss _Bren Aldric Ermendrud_, lord of the fields. Bren’s lips pull into a strange smile in that moment before they’re collapsing into each other, her chest against his as he pulls her heretical, bright body up, her chest rising and falling, as he feels his mouth slant against her lovely, painted lips. 

“Ja,” he’s murmuring, as they pull apart. Their foreheads are touching, and the cold of her skin is a prophecy against everything searing and wrong inside of him. He’s not supposed to do this, she’s not supposed to _want_ this, this is wrong-wrong-_wrong—_

Her smile is blinding, and he reaches for another kiss, like his very soul is shuddering with random and unmitigated purpose in her direction, all the threads crashing into the way she tilts her head. “Ja,” he whispers again, against her lips, and sighs as he feels her tongue running over his teeth.

The book lies forgotten on the couch beside him.


End file.
